


I try to picture me without you

by EBDaydreamer



Series: Immortals [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EBDaydreamer/pseuds/EBDaydreamer
Summary: Before leaving to take down Moriarty's web, Sherlock has to make one final goodbye.





	I try to picture me without you

221B Baker Street was hollow and lifeless as they cautiously opened the door, disturbing a layer of dust that had already begun to gather. Sherlock led Irene inside, tactfully hiding his face from her. She didn’t need to see him to know that he was finding this difficult. If she had to guess she’d say that this was the first place he had ever truly felt he belonged, had called home.

“I’ll be quick. If you need something, feel free. I doubt Mrs Hudson will notice,” his voice was as cold and as calculating as the day they first met and he tried to learn where the royally scandalous photographs were hidden. He was trying to remain in control; emotionless. Irene couldn’t help but feel sorry for him: he was sacrificing everything. She had ‘died’ for her own protection whilst he was doing it to save his friends.

That was the clear difference between them. She could be devastatingly selfish and manipulative to even those she cared for (one might say especially them); and he, the Great Sherlock Holmes, who cared quickly and more deeply than he would ever admit or anyone would ever see - he would give up his small bit of comfort for his friends.

Awkwardly, Irene stood by the door as he danced around his flat, picking up only little, unnoticeable necessities. He was rummaging through his desk drawers when she heard him beckon her over and handed her a cool, dark, slim object. “Here.”

Her camera phone.

“You kept it  _here_?” she unsuccessfully attempted to mask the wonder in her voice. She knew - well, hoped - that he had it. She’d asked him in Karachi to retrieve it for her:

_“I’ll have no way of getting it to you, you know. Please don’t be foolish enough to tell me your location.”_

_“I know! I know, I just...keep it safe for me?”_

_“It’ll be wiped clea-”_

_“I know but...sentiment and all.”_

“Where else would I keep it?” he scoffed.

Irene shrugged, “I don’t know. Not here”

Sherlock sighed, “It is a little momentum of a remarkable adventure, a truly formidable opponent.” He turned his back on her, continuing to gather items.

“I’m flattered,” Irene said gently, almost to herself. It felt good to have in her hands again, like returning to an old friend. She shouldn’t be so keen to see it, not after Sherlock had deduced what it meant...sentiment. He’d called it her heart and the phone should remind her of a time she let it rule her head. Instead, all she could think about was he kept it. He kept what he claimed to be her heart; a representation of her sentimental side. Automatically, her fingers typed in the four letters, not expecting it to unlock. When the screen didn’t turn error red, her eyes widened. “You didn’t change it?”

He kept his back mostly turned, but she swore she saw a hint of a smirk, “I saw no need.”

Grinning to herself, she tucked the phone into her coat pocket and followed him as he disappeared into his bedroom. Watching him scuttle around, she threw herself onto his bed, remembering when she broke in and took a nap.

“Making yourself at home?”

“Your bed is exceedingly comfortable,” she murmured.

“Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his gaze linger on her for a brief moment, before he peeled off his coat. “I’ll have to leave it, of course. Too noticeable,” he sighed, running a gentle hand over it.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she studied him, “You really love that thing, don’t you?” She couldn’t blame him, to be honest; it was soft and the kind of comfortable that only came with being consistently worn over time. She’d been sorry to part with it after he kindly lent it to her to spare the uncomfortableness of Dr Watson, but she preferred it on him than her anyway.

He inhaled sharply, “Doesn’t matter.”

No denial. “ Who gave it to you?” She stood up, moving up to him confrontationally. “When did you get it?”

He turned to her, snarling, “Does. Not. Matter.”

Raising her hand in surrender, Irene sat back on the bed.

He spent a few more minutes collecting various items before he turned to her, a near unreadable expression on his face: “That’ll be all.”

Irene stood up, moving to redo her discarded disguise. As she touched up her lipstick, Sherlock started talking. “Mycroft has arranged transportation to the airport and will cover any funding needed to travel and survive.”

“I need to go on a shopping spree in Paris to survive, will he cover that?” When he raised a brow she replied, “Well, if we’re going to be there a while we’ll need fake identities. I’ve already got accommodations sorted and I assure you that someone living there would never miss out on a good shop.”

She could practically hear him roll his eyes. “You don’t think he’ll notice the significant amount of money missing?”

“Spoilsport.”

***

When the two had finally settled the discussion of money (and how much extra of Mycroft’s she could spend) they grabbed their minimal possessions and headed off. As Sherlock pulled the door to 221B closed he paused, taking in Baker Street for the last time in what could possibly be years.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, before rejoining Irene.


End file.
